“I don’t know,” her sister answered. “But I guess we’re going to find out.”
The smell coated Cordelia’s mouth and nose in a bitter tide, musty and sour. She looked up to see Molly pointing across the room where the king-sized bed had been pulled back from the wall.
“Thisis what I was trying to show you,” Molly exclaimed, her face going all blotchy from the stress.
“I trust you,” Cordelia said into the phone, unable to process what she was seeing. “You can tell me all about it when you get back.”
“It has to bebothof us,” Eustace told her. “You’re named.”
“I didn’t realize they knew our names.” It was one thing for a random attorney to look them up as next of kin and quite another to learn their great-aunt had known of their existence and never reached out.
She approached the wall slowly, holding the phone away from her ear, the smell making her head pound. She could see a bit of gray where the zebrawood nightstand had been. Moving around the linen headboard, she realized what had been giving Molly panic hives. An impressive bloom of black mold was creeping its way up the Sheetrock undeterred, like something from another, darker world bleeding through, a stygian presence and a likely parting gift from the bathroom sinks on the other side.
This would cost her a small fortune to fix before she could list the house, and she wouldn’t see a red cent from John.
She stared at the blackened wall. Budget and schedule be damned. She could not afford to lose whatever meager sum awaited her in the Nutmeg State. It would take every penny she could scrape together to remedy this and pull herself out of the pecuniary nosedive she was in. “Connecticut. Both of us. The sooner the better.”
“Are you free this weekend?”
Cordelia smiled. “As a matter of fact, I am. I’ll get a ticket tonight.”
“It’s settled then,” Eustace said with a sigh.
“See you soon,” Cordelia said. “And Eustace?”
“Yes?”
“It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Same,” her sister responded before hanging up.
Cordelia could feel the pressure mounting as she put away the phone, that invisible weight that always preceded a sudden summer storm. Thunder bristled outside despite how sunny it was when they’d arrived. Inside her, a different kind of pressure was building, threatening to spill over into a full-blown attack of feelings.
She looked down at the blank envelope she was still clutching. Lifting the flap, she pulled out a single sheet of printer paper and unfolded it. The handwriting was oversized, almost juvenile, with crooked letters that ran off the edge in slanted lines.
To whom it concerns (this is you—John’s wife),
Your husband borrowed a certain sum of money from one of my esteemed associates which he has yet to return. Seeing as we can’t find the slippery bastard, it now falls on you to pay his debt. Nothing personal, you understand, just business. You have exactly thirty-one days to repay the loan in full or we’ll take it out in years instead of dollars. How many of those you got left?
Don’t call me; I’ll call you.
—Busy Mazzello
P.S. No point in going to the cops. We own them too.
The envelope and paper slid from Cordelia’s hand and wafted to the carpet. She’d heard of people taking business loans from the mob, but she never imagined John wouldstoop that low. Then again, he always had to have the best of everything—at any cost. Her phone began to buzz, the numberUnknown.She put it to her ear. “Hello?”
“You get my letter?”
“Mr. Mazzello, I presume?”
“Call me Busy,” he replied.
“You realize I have nothing to do with my husband’s loans? He’s left a string of debt broader than this state in his wake. How am I supposed to repay this?”
“With all due respect, miss, that sounds like ayouproblem.”
Cordelia wanted to scream. “Why don’t you go after him, huh? Take it out ofhisyears?”
